Burning Like The Sun Inside A Wet Oral Cavity

We’re making our way along the Darebin Creek towards the Sunday Market at Latrobe Uni and because I’ve just come out of another self-imposed writing marathon which has eaten up an entire night’s sleep in less than four days, I’m fighting a fatigue so complete that I’ve lost control of my facial muscles.

There’s an upturned couch dumped ten meters past one of the boys most frequented playgrounds but instead of shaking my head in disgust – as I would usually do – I can only look at its wet, soft, cushiony base longingly.

I’m pushing Maki along in a pram, Reservoir Mum is walking fast-paced behind Tyson to prevent him from falling over on his training-wheels equipped bike, and Archie and Lewis are hightailing up ahead, zipping left and right and trying to outdo each other. When they disappear behind a dip in the bike path, thirty meters ahead, I feel the need to break into a jog to keep an eye on them but my limbs flat-out refuse to obey me and I have to admit to being surprised by this all-over malaise.

Usually, I’d shift my gaze and marvel at the browny-grey water of the Darebin Creek as it rushes over age-old boulders and truck tyres and shopping trolleys but today even the effort of turning my head is too much.

Up ahead where the path bends I see an old man across the street in his front yard. He’s wearing a bath robe, sitting on a beach chair, talking to a dog that’s wearing a woolly red jumper and the scene appeals to me. I can understand the merit of seeing the years out like that.

A few minutes later RM and Tyson are also creeping away from us and when I lean forward to see that Maki has fallen asleep under the warm winter sun I seriously contemplate ducking under a tree for some shut-eye, but because this is a family outing – and one that I have promised the boys all week – I dig deep into my backpack and bring out some legal stimulants to get me back on track.

I’m holding two small white no-doze tablets and one large Berocca tablet in the palm of my hand and I’m suddenly very aware that RM has the only water bottle…

The no-doze tablets go down no worries but the Berocca tablet is the size of three ten cent pieces on top of each other and when I place it on my tongue the sharp tang of it fires every synapse in my facial muscles and charges all of my sense in such a powerful way that I break into a sprint in a shocked irrational attempt to outrun it.

The flavour of it is overwhelming and, yes, it would definitely be more palatable after dissolving in a glass of water but as my legs stride effortlessly along the bike path, Reservoir Mum and Tyson come into focus and I feel an intense buzz that I can only attribute to the eyelid-evaporating smack in the face intensity of taking Berocca straight.

Maki and I have caught up to and passed RM and Tyson and now we’re closing in on Archie and Lewis and I’m moving so fast and furious that all of a sudden I imagine my legs are a circular blur – like the road-runner’s – and because I’m always keen to experiment with legal to semi-legal stimulants in an attempt to beat the mortal need for sleep I take things one step further and bite down on the Berocca.

It’s dampened outer shell explodes into a powdery bomb of such flavoursome insanity that it retards my thought-processes to the point that I associate with nothing but what is happening inside my mouth. I am not longer a lacklustre version of Reservoir Dad walking along the Darebin Creek with his family, I am an orange flavoured bitterness to the power of 10,000 Warhead lollies burning like the Sun inside a wet oral cavity.

For a period of time I am aware of nothing but my own guttural growl, a feeling of weightlessness and spinning, and the cool and funky tunes of ‘Get Lucky’ by Daft Punk; which I was listening to just this morning. Then my eyes find their focus on the path ahead and I can see the green beside me and the blue above. My tongue has coiled itself up at the back of my mouth like overloaded Venetian blinds and when I brush at the irritation on my lower lip my fingers come away glistening a sparkling orange drool.

‘Daddy, watch me!’ Tyson yells.

I swallow hard, press my tongue against the top of my mouth and then say, erratically, ‘Go Tys, ride like the wind!’ as he and RM hoon past.

I break into a jog again and I’m smiling; my facial muscles rejuvenated and the world around me is alive; moving with a common energy that I want to describe as life-force. It’s as if the brilliance of the Universe is the result of God’s own sneeze and I was the tickle in his nose that caused it. I don’t know where to look; I want a piece of everything.

When I look down I see that Maki is stirring and I reach down to squeeze his little hand and say, ‘Hello, sweetheart.’ I’m overwhelmed, and back on track.

When we all gather together to cross the traffic lights at Plenty Road I look ahead anticipating the few hours of excellent family fun ahead of us at the Latrobe Uni Market, and I’m up for it.

‘Hello,’ I say, to Reservoir Mum, feeling the return of the familiar nutso. ‘My name’s Reservoir; Reservoir Dad. You want a Berocca?’

About The Author

I fell into this blogging thing but now see it as that crucial cog in the machine. Blogging offers me a great creative outlet with an immediate audience. It freshens my perspective. Reliving my time with the boys, recording our last pregnancy and the birth of our fourth child and dancing around the intimate moments of my relationship with Reservoir Mum acts as a time capsule for my family, adds a little extra to my world, and reminds me of how good I’ve got it.

A hard day at the office becomes a learning experience in retrospect, a chance to colour the most difficult moments with a touch of the crazy, something to savour, something to reread later with the boys on my lap.

Related Posts

6 Comments

Kristi
on June 28, 2013 at 12:53 am

Thanks, now I have the insane urge to eat a Berocca dry and I can’t even cope with one warhead!
Sorry to be the narky one to point it out…Tom Hanks, not Tom Cruise. Sleep deprivation does terrible things! 😉